Where Love Meets Limits.

One thing about me: I love this work.

I don’t just like being an educator — I *live* it. I take it personal. I feel it in my bones. I show up every day with the mindset that teaching is service, and service often requires sacrifice. And for years, I operated like that was the only way to do this job — give, give, give until there’s nothing left, then find a way to give a little more.

But lately? I’ve been learning balance. And let me tell you… BALANCE IS HARD.

When you love something deeply, you blur the lines without realizing it.

You stay late. You answer messages at night. You think about your students on weekends. You carry their stories, their traumas, their frustrations, and their successes right in your chest. It feels noble — like the “right” thing to do — because this work *matters.* These kids matter.

But here’s the truth I’m finally facing:

Loving this work doesn’t mean losing myself to it.

There is a difference between serving and surrendering your entire well-being.

There is a difference between showing up and giving away every last piece of yourself.

And there is a difference between caring deeply and carrying everything.

Educators like me — the ones who feel it all, who take it home, who cry in the car, who celebrate tiny victories like they’re championships — we struggle with that balance the most. Because we want to be everything, everywhere, all at once. We want our kids to succeed so badly that we’re willing to stretch ourselves thin just to keep them from breaking.

But at some point, you realize:

You can’t pour from a cup that’s always cracked.

You can’t serve well when you’re exhausted.

You can’t model wellness when you’re running on fumes.

Balance is not abandoning the mission — it’s preserving the person carrying it.

So I’m learning to say “not right now.”

I’m learning to take breaks without guilt.

I’m learning that rest is a form of resistance, especially in a profession that always wants more.

I’m learning that taking care of myself is also taking care of my students — because they need a whole, grounded, present version of me. Not the one hanging on by a thread.

It’s not easy.

It’s not natural.

It’s definitely not comfortable.

But it’s necessary.

I’m still committed. I’m still passionate. I’m still going to show up for my kids with everything I have — just not at the cost of my peace, my health, or my identity. I’m learning that service can coexist with boundaries. That love can coexist with limits. That sacrifice does not have to mean self-erasure.

This balance thing?

Yeah… it’s hard. So hard.

But it’s also the most grown-up, emotionally responsible, soul-saving lesson I’ve learned in my career. And I’m giving myself permission to learn it day by day — imperfectly, intentionally, and unapologetically.